Through a valley of thorny shrubs and barberry growing beneath hills that rose on each side, we came upon a large fallen tree trunk obstructing the path. Shattered, peeling bark ran in jagged lines from the dead trunk, sharp and appearing almost sun-bleached on the road.
“The ancient Arassanis would say that anyone who cuts down a tree would lose a loved one in the same year,” announced Imraan, halting and climbing down from his horse.
“What if you needed wood for shelter, for houses? Isn’t it a necessity?” I countered, halting Zur’adi, who reared and neighed as if it did not like me commanding it.
Imraan went to inspect the tree. “I’m sure there’s an exception for cutting it down for useful purposes. But maybe you’re condemned either way.”
“Can you two stop debating about the morals of a fallen tree?” Surayyah called. “We can’t linger here too long — this is near the territory of the Asman riders. We’re going to have to figure out some way around, and fast.”
“We will have to turn around,” Tariq said. “Take another route.”
“Through where, Thieras Road? It is going to be swarming with Shayfahan,” said Imraan.
“I do not see another way around it,” Tariq said.
I raised a hand. “I hear something.” A voice singing far off in the distance came through the trees over the hill. A steady, unhurried clopping of hooves came closer with it.
A tall man emerged from among the trees riding a chestnut horse, his head raised up towards the skies as he hummed with his eyes closed. He moved lithely on the horse, his body loose and carefree, arms slacking on the reins. He wore a crown made of ironwood above his head, tilted askew to the side.
Behind him came more riders, wearing armor made of the same eastern ironwood and river birch on the torso and along the arms. On their backs they carried spears and arrow shafts. When they saw the four of us in the road, the armed men drew their weapons, daggers whipping out into the air.
Imraan and Surayyah unsheathed their swords.
At the sound of his men’s flurry to arms, the tall leader finally opened his eyes. “What is this ruckus?” He said. He glanced down at us. “Ah, what do we have here now?”
“Who comes to the Arch of the Asman Hills?” called one of the soldiers in the back. He had a narrow face, sharply defined cheek and nose, and deep-set eyes, his dark hair pulled back.
The crowned man put up a hand. “Ah, calm down now, Talal, no need to scare away our fellow riders in the forest.”
He strode down to the edge of the hilly grounds in front of them. “No need for these silly weapons, you know,” he brandished an arm at them. “They do cause such trouble. I am Saylan, chieftain of the Asman Hills. Now you know my name. Put down the weapons.”
“Your men drew first, Chieftain Saylan,” Imraan called, his sword still raised.
“True indeed, can’t deny that.” Saylan the Chief turned to his men, waving his arm at us. “Put those down,” he reprimanded. The man called Talal furrowed his brows, anger settling in his eyes. But reluctantly, he too lowered down his weapons with the others.
Imraan and Surayyah lowered their steels.
“Well? Are you going to answer my guard’s question?” Saylan asked.
“We merely seek passage through the Arch of the Asman Hills, Chief Saylan,” Imraan said, bowing his head in respect. “When we encountered this trunk barricading the road.”
Saylan looked over at the fallen tree. “Alas, of course, one cannot expect to pass so easily through the Asman Mountains, can they? We must defend ourselves with more cleverness than that, shall we not?”
Surayyah approached the man on her horse. “I am Surayyah, of the Jhansar. We are travelers seeking to ride to Arassan to help our friends, the Jhansari people there,” she said. “You can help us to find another way through?”
“That is a good question. Can we now, do you think, my dear friends?” Saylan asked, turning to his men. They remained sullen, without an answer.
After a while, the man called Talal shouted, “That is not our law.”
“Ah, so grim, Talal,” Saylan declared. “So rigid.” His dark hair seemed to resist aging even as lines edged his eyes and features, fueled with a youthfulness sustained by his drunkenness. He turned his eyes to us. “Yet my dear Talal is not wrong, for men fight among the realm more blind than the eyeless spider. It is all the same, isn’t it?”
“And you do not?” Imraan asked.
“We have lived in our mountain for a thousand years away from your quarrels over land and your conquering,” Saylan said. “But Salman’s wars and all of your practices extorting the earth has come to destroy us before it has come for you up in your cities.” His smile evaporated.
His voice lost its mirth, and he raised his arms up to the forest. “I have witnessed the fall of the earth and the trees and the creatures here because of all your greed. So you see,” he looked directly at Imraan. “It truly is in our best interests to deny you. You must go.” He turned away. His riders made to follow him back through the brush of the forests.
I climbed down from my horse. “Chieftain Saylan!” I shouted. The tall man halted, the others stopping behind him. Saylan turned his horse around to face me. I called, “My home, too, is on the verge of being destroyed by the rising tides. It is not only your land that has been harmed.”
“And where do you come from?” Saylan asked, his voice slow, carefully evaluating me.
“Bayrun, of the deltas. We have been fighting off the floods every year. I don’t know if it still stands the way it did seven years before. I have not been home for many years.”
The man tilted his head. He rode his horse back down, and the others opened a path for him, moving aside.
Talal flustered for a bit, raising his arms in a gesture of disbelief. “Why do you bother to heed what comes out of their mouth?” he hissed in a whisper.
The glazed eyes of Saylan’s drunkenness evaporated when he turned to meet Talal’s gaze and held it. Talal glanced away sheepishly to the ground.
“Seven years, you say? You truly are of Bayrun, aren’t you?” Saylan asked me curiously. “I hear it in your tongue. We have friends in Bayrun.” He raised his head, for a moment seeming sober. “Thankar was destroyed in the Purge, but your home still stands. That we know. The tides have worsened, but they survive on.”
I nodded acknowledgment. “I thank you for this news, brother Saylan.”
Saylan stood for a moment, watching them each in turn, considering. “I can take you through our land to the Arch, but you must promise me something.”
“What?” Talal exclaimed behind him. “You cannot —”
Saylan raised his hand without turning, and Talal halted.
Saylan gestured to the four of us. “You must let go of all that tense wariness. Because it is a misfortune when fear, distrust and weapons meet — this is when unnecessary bloodshed occurs. You will not harm any of my people.”
I nodded. “We promise you not a soul will be harmed.” I turned to the other three, where Imraan, Surayyah and Tariq watched our exchange in surprise.
“Yes, of course,” Imraan said, turning to Saylan. “We would never harm needlessly.”
“This is not our practice,” Talal was whispering to Saylan, taking him aside. “Regardless of whether she is of Bayrun or not.”
“I gave up a long time ago of doing things the way my father did, Talal. We have new practices when I say we do.” He turned towards me. “Come then, fellow riders of the forest,” said Saylan.
I led the way up, and the three of them followed.
“Thank you, brother Saylan for your generosity,” Imraan said.
“I do not do it for you, city-dweller,” Saylan said as his horse scrambled up over the low hill.
“I was not always a city-dweller,” muttered Imraan.
We rode on up through the forest grounds behind Saylan’s men, among thickets of tall birches rising high in the skies, light spilling through the branches, dappling the earth of old shed tree bark, leaves and fallen debris.
____________________________________________
In his throne of ironwood, Saylan slumped down, motioning to a servant in a wrapped linen to bring forth wine and uchuva berries as Talal guided the four travelers to the hall.
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“This is strange,” Surayyah whispered. “I have told you, I don’t know if we can trust them. The Saylan I heard of for many years was not so hospitable.”
“Have faith, Surayyah. You heard him, when distrust and weapons meet…and so on,” said Imraan. “Me, I would like some shade and a cool drink for once in the past three days.” Tariq did not say anything to her, as it seemed he and his sister were still not on speaking terms, but the schoolteacher pursed his lips as if in agreement with Imraan.
Through the columns at the top of the hill, they faced out onto the vista where pillars and temples of smooth stone rose on each side of the steppes. Arranged line of stonehouses carved from the hills facing the dome-shaped dwelling they had been brought to. At the head of the hall, Saylan now threw his head back against the carve of the throne-seat. His eyes closed, he lay with his arm on his chest, breathing deeply.
Terraces were carved into the hillsides, curving all along the slopes, formations of steps of verdant greenery. The lush green gave it an appearance of being natural, and yet the edges were carved too precisely, too sharply.
Several guards in uniform returning from the ride stood around Saylan’s throne, wiping the sweat from their brows.
A man in white robes sat at the bottom of the steps, arranging in front of Saylan an array of knotted threads before him hung on an wooden fixture. As Saylan spoke, he threaded knots quickly, efficiently, in a form of single-knots, long-knots and figure-of-eights, as if recording the information. In an array of crimsons, azure, and yellows, the knots of different lengths and compositions were suspended like knotted sunbeams from the rows.
“This is my accountant and record keeper, Riqi-Qasi,” Saylan introduced as the four of them were led into the hall. Riqi-Qasi nodded his acknowledgment.
One of the guards holding his helmet in his hand snickered. “Bean counter, more like you mean, my king.”
Riqi-Qasi glanced up, furrowing his brows. “My position is undervalued, I will have you know — by the likes of fools like you, Quinha, parading around in your armor —”
“Oh, I assure you, the people aren’t exactly thrilled to see you arriving to collect their taxes, bean counter,” said Quinha.
“I hold this entire civilization on my arms,” Riqi-Qasi said indignantly, raising his arms, the threads falling from his hands. “What would you all do without my knots, eh? There would be no order, all chaos, I assume that is what you want —”
“I would sleep in peace knowing your knots won’t be following me around —” Quinha snickered.
“You ungrateful —”
“Shut it, the two of you,” Saylan ordered, setting down his silver-encrusted goblet of wine on the arm of the throne. “Quinha, you are lucky you were my friend before my guardsman. Not in my throne room, I’ve told you.”
Quinha glowered at Riqi-Qasi, who glanced away with a smug grin.
“We have guests,” Saylan declared. “A daughter of Bayrun, from the land that helped us develop the systems to fend off the river floods and melting ice that ruined our mountains a decade ago.”
“We thank you for your gracious hosting, Chief Saylan,” I said, nodding.
Riqi-Qasi eyed me. “You are of Bayrun?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Tragedy, what they did to your home, sister,” Riqi-Qasi murmured, shaking his head.
Just as the servants brought out the trays and we were sitting down to taste the uchuva berries and a type of baked pastry, Salman took a long swig of his wine and slammed down the goblet with a loud clang. “Come, let me show you all something. I need to get out of this stuffy hall and this stiff throne and my bickering court.”
Imraan whispered, “Can I take the pastries with me you think, or will that be rude?” Next to him, Surayyah eyed the berries suspiciously, refusing to touch them.
“I don’t think he will even notice if you do,” I murmured.
But at that moment, Saylan seemed to remember his guests and halted. “Ah, yes, yes, of course, you have not yet eaten properly, my manners fail me — bring it all with you. You will have all the time, for it appears if you want to cross the Arch, you will have to do so in the morning — the Arch of the Asman Mountains lies that way” — he pointed towards the northeast. “By the time you reach the Arch, it will be dark. And I would not advise this.”
Talal rushed forward from his spot next to Quinha. “Stay? Why is that necessary?”
“Oh Talal, I do not think it is you who deems what is necessary, do you?” Saylan smiled coldly at him and moved away from his throne.
The servants scurried about to take the plates as Saylan led the way out through the back of the throne room, where the arches opened out to a pathway through the mountains.
We climbed up and through winding pathways between lush green terraces.
“What are those terraces meant for?” I asked. “Are they natural formations or your people have carved them?”
“They are carved, sister, for agricultural terraces. We cultivate here nearly thirty-five varieties of plants. We needed to find a new way for the melting rivers of ice to remain long enough for us to grow our agriculture during the warmer months.”
“Yes, my father spoke of the mountain runoffs,” I asked. “They have been unusual of late.”
“We know your chief governor in Bayrun, Shirazi. We have worked together for many years to counter the effects with the help of your mangrove root systems.”
“My father was part of the work for some time. He helped develop the mangrove systems.”
“Your father you say?” Saylan said. “Who was this man?”
“His name was – is – Ahmed Ansary,” I said.
Saylan halted his horse. “Ansary, Ansary – I know that name. Yes, the woodworker – you are the woodworker’s daughter. You – Governor Shirazi told me of your family – of you.” His face darkened and he grew quieter, appearing to think. He walked on ahead through a path that seemed to grow foggy by the second.
“Ah, did he now?” I said. “What did he say to you?”
Saylan’s eyes roved over me curiously, but he did not answer. He moved on ahead of them, as the servants followed him. Lush long ferns peered out through the growing mist over us.
When Saylan was far enough at a distance, Surayyah muttered, “I had never heard of him as a drunkard chief, he always had command of himself and his people.” She raised the edge of her robe as we trod through the mountain paths. “Yet now that is what he is known to be here? It is too strange – I say we head for the Arch as soon as possible.”
“Surayyah, let’s rest for one day,” said Imraan. “Wouldn’t you like a nice warm bed for once rather than hard rocks and dirt?”
“For a hunted man, Imraan, you are always too lax,” Surayyah replied. She watched Saylan carefully as he leaned in to a bright yellow flower and sniffed in deeply. “I do not trust him,” she murmured.
“But you never met him yourself before, have you?” I asked. “How do you know for certain what he was like before, whether he was not always this way?”
Surayyah eyed me. “I am sorry, but Rahena, you befriended him so quickly, too quickly he trusted you.”
“I got us through.”
“Not through the Arch yet,” Surayyah replied.
“We would not have gotten to the arch if we had not gotten through here, would we?”
“We shall see,” Surayyah said. She went off to follow Saylan further into the garden as he wandered in to watch the birds drink from a tall gurgling stone fountain. “Sword-billed birds, white-tufted sunbeams, the Asmani hillstar,” Saylan was saying, pointing to the birds.
“Don’t mind her,” Tariq told me. “She is merely wary, always on the watch for something going wrong.”
Imraan laughed. “One time she launched at Yusuf in their own house as he came in through the door because she thought he was a scoundrel thief.”
“Where are we going?” Surayyah asked Saylan.
“This,” Saylan declared. “Is a cloud forest. You are within one. Many different species depend on the rich life of our cloud forests, and now they are dying.”
He guided us through lush greenery to a forest clearing, from where we could see hundreds of small, round birds in jeweled shades fluttering around, their wings glowing in the light of the sun as if it borrowed the light.
“Elrithin birds,” Imraan whispered, looking up around them.
“Yes,” Saylan said. “One of the largest homes of Elrithin birds in the world.” Fluttering around us, the birds leaped from one flower to the other, depositing their glowing essence into the plants. They flew so fast, their wings whirled almost invisibly in the air.
“I have heard of the Asmani cloud forests,” Surayyah said, for a moment her curiosity overtaking her skepticism.
Saylan peered down to watch a sword-billed bird as it flickered around a particularly thick bush of yellow flowers. “The Elrithin is a particular species that journeys all the way to this land in the spring, to feed from the flowering imanus blooms – but this year, you see, the imanus flowers were nearly dead by the time the birds arrived. They bloomed too early, for half the length of time they should be here, and then they shriveled away. In a few years, the Elrithin birds will come home to find – nothing.”
“Why?” Tariq asked.
“The tides are shifting,” Saylan said.
“You speak like my father,” I said.
“The Wraithtaint is changing everything,” Saylan continued. “It is darkening the waters, yes, but it is also changing the water cycles, the runoff from the mountains into rivers and lakes, disrupting the blooming of plants, and the creatures that survive on their seeds. Soon, the Elrithin birds will not survive. Numerous trees and plants thrive on their deposit of Elrithin essence in order to propagate; some plants from which we need to create healing medicine. If they do not survive, thousands of the plants that depend on them will cease to exist over time. It will weaken entire habitats which civilizations across the Ardth depend on.” He knelt down to the ground to offer his finger to a particularly small bird perched on a low branch.
“But you see, the kings across the Ardth sitting on their thrones do not see how they are interconnected with life. And even if they did, they would only care as long as they can use them for their own means. In the cities they do not know, they do not see. My house — we are called the House of the Elrithin, and yet even my own father did not see. I only learned to care for them because of my mother.”
“What do you mean the Wraithtaint is changing everything?” Tariq asked. “The Wraithtaint was only the disease. We have the cure now —”
“You see, that is where you are wrong. The daughter of Bayrun,” he nodded towards me. “Your father began to suspect it. No, the race of humans have not found a cure for the Wraithtaint, not in the way you believe —”
Quinha and Talal came to Saylan and whispered something in his ears. Saylan nodded, and as they left, Talal eyed Saylan’s back. But Saylan did not notice.
On our way back up to the dome as Saylan swirled around his goblet, stumbling around the garden, Tariq asked, “Brother, please forgive me my intrusion, I do not mean any insult, but why do you let them see you this way? This drunkenness? From a king?”
Saylan placed a hand on Tariq’s shoulder, staring down at him. Tariq began to shift uncomfortably in the silence between them.
But Saylan only laughed. “You ask why I drink so much? You wonder why I bumble around a drunken fool of a king?” He laughed, raising his arms. “Look around you – what else is one to do when you see this? When you know what is coming? And when no one else around you sees it, they do not even acknowledge its reality. You speak half to the wall, half to deafened and blinded eyes and ears. What else is there to do, tell me?” His laughter stopped abruptly, and his face grew dark. “What else is there to do?”
As we walked back to the throne hall and the stars began to emerge, Saylan stepped alongside me. He raised a finger to the skies. “Do you see that, my Bayruni sister?”
I examined the skies. “What should I be seeing?”
He pointed to something, and I thought at first that he was merely drunken. But then he said, “That formation that looks like a snake. It is an omen of good, of a stranger that brings tidings. It is why I decided to trust you.”
“I thank you for trusting me so,” I replied, nodding my head in acknowledgment.
“But that is not the real reason I let you in.” He halted, leaning in to whisper in my ears; the others passed us by, Surayyah watching us curiously. “You see, I have heard of your powers. My mother, too, suffered from them.”
My heart thudded, and for the first time I watched him seriously. “What signs did she exhibit?”
“Tortured by voices, pains in her head,” Saylan said. “She was called a witch, a layqa. If she was not tormented by her powers, she certainly was by the whispers of her own people.”
“What happened to her?” I asked, willing myself not to hope too much — could it be? Or was I listening to the ramblings of a man gone mad with grief? “Would I be able to meet her?”
Saylan guffawed. “She killed herself.” And with that, he walked on off after the group.
I stood there looking after his retreating, stumbling figure with my fingers going numb and a pounding in my skull.